


Lost and the Lonely

by John_Q_Sample



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Daydreaming, Dreams, Dreamscapes, Gen, Jareth (Labyrinth) Backstory, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Riddles, mazes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Q_Sample/pseuds/John_Q_Sample
Summary: The singer had been daydreaming of the same world since he was a child. This time, it's almost a nightmare.





	Lost and the Lonely

He was beginning to think this wasn’t a dream at all.   
  
The singer was prone to constant daydreaming and imagination. It was the only break he had from his life. The habit had started when he was a child, hidden under his covers and pressing his hands against his eyes so hard he’d start to see specks. The world of his dreams grew as he did, its magical inhabitants providing what felt like a second home.   
  
As a kid, he’d go on exciting adventures. He told everyone he was the prince and soon, when he came of age, he would be their king. He made friends with the goblins and solved riddles whenever he could. Sometimes he’d send people through the labyrinth just to see if they could make it.   
  
Now, it was less of an adventure and more of a second life. He’d enter, in his dreams, at the center, always at the center. He would stand before the door of the castle beyond the goblin city. He was elegant, his costumes decorated with intricate designs. He’d push open the door with a dramatic sweep of his hands and enter the building with his cape trailing behind him as he walked. He would fold his gloved hands in front of him.   
  
Always gloved, for he had things to hide.   
  
It would be a slow walk to the throne, and then we would sit upon it while the goblins would stare in anticipation. Then he’d grin. Then he’d laugh. Then they, too, would laugh, for he was their king.   
  
There, in his dreams, he could do whatever he pleased. He could still explore and go on those childish adventures. Many times, though, he preferred to stay at the castle and live out his life. He would speak with subjects and handle the city. Sometimes, he’d go on long walks alone through the labyrinth as if to marvel at his own designs.   
  
This time, though, it was different.   
  
It wasn’t dreamy at all. It was nightmarish, like a personally designed hell. The elements of his dreams were there as if to tease him, but it was all so different, so foreign to him.   
  
He was still himself. He was not elegant, but tired and weak. He was skinny, pale, with dull bangs that fell into his eyes constantly. He wore a plain shirt and a plain pair of pants and a plain leather jacket. It was all so boring and human. He was trapped in the form of the person he loathed most.   
  
Worse, though, was that when he reached the nightmare land, he was lying on a cold, stone floor at the front gate of the labyrinth. He was to solve the labyrinth, he presumed, for some awful reason or another. Maybe, he thought, the king he once was now stood at the castle laughing at him for his folly. Tried to be king, eh? he’d say, with a grin. We’ll see how you like it now.   
  
At first, when he chose to believe he was still dreaming, he wondered if the labyrinth was just the manifestation of stress. But as he went on, trying to solve the thing, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was truly happening to him. Everything was all too real, harsh and full of consequences. Was he doomed to suffer the rest of his life here, searching and searching for that center that seemed so far away no matter how much he ran?   
  
Sprinting through the ever-twisting passages, he contemplated what his fate might be. Perhaps it would be a quick death: a member of the goblin army would mistake him for an enemy and shoot him dead before he could even reach the city.   
  
Perhaps, though, considering his recent luck or lack thereof, it would be long and painful. He could grow ill. He could get injured. He could starve or dehydrate. Then, he would spend his last hours lying helpless against one of the glitter-coated walls. He would call out for help, but his voice would be too weak. There would be no one around to hear. He could become nothing more than a skeleton left there as a warning to others.   
  
Still, though, he must always play along. You must always play along in fantasy realms, for that was how the stories went.   
  
Down more passages he traveled. He was running with the hopes that it would get him through quicker. It only served to get him lost quicker.   
  
Seeing the stone walls give way into mere hedges was a great relief. That, of course, was by his own design. With his heels he was just barely able to see over the shrubbery, but that didn’t seem to help much. It was just more hedges, more stone flooring, and more glitter. The only point of interest was a small plaza with beautiful vases and a few benches for resting. What was once a peaceful area, though, became a point of frustration and disappointment as he found the passages constantly led him back to the same location. Every. Single. Time.   
  
At one point, he gave up. He cried out, then screamed some obscenities. He kicked the bench and then hissed with pain. He collapsed on top of the bench and buried his head in his hands.   
  
Count backward from ten, he reminded himself while taking deep breaths.   
  
Slightly calmer, a miracle given his situation, he relaxed a bit and looked up. The skies were the same blue color that he had woken up to earlier. How much time had passed? It could have been hours, or perhaps just a few torturous minutes. He had no way of knowing. There were no clocks, or anything else resembling that a person had even been there.   
  
Alright, he told himself, alright, you have to do this because if you don’t, you will die here. And dying here would be so much worse than dying back home without having done anything interesting, so you better get going.   
  
He steeled his nerves, stood up, and started over.   
  
Down the paths. Turns, everywhere turns. Down more paths. They all looked the same, all blending together in his memory. He gave up on trying to figure out where he was exactly and went with his instincts. It was frightening, maddening. He felt like a lab rat. Perhaps he was.   
  
Then, finally, something new.   
  
A passage led out of the hedge. Following it, he came upon a long walkway with no new walls in sight. There was only woods, only the trees.   
  
He laughed out loud. He had done it.   
  
The forest stretched on forever, but there were no cramped passageways. There were no dead ends. He walked and kept walking. Twigs and leaves were in his hair. Spores began sticking to his jacket. He looked crazed, but he kept walking, looking about for any dangers. More than once had he tripped over the thick underbrush.   
  
The walking could have lasted hours. The singer resulted in humming quietly, almost to remind himself that he was still alive.   
  
Upon a hill he came. There, finally, he could see the city. He leaned against a tree and sighed a breath of relief.   
  
Home.   
  
The gates opened as he passed through, almost if they knew exactly who he was. The city was full of life, the goblins going about their normal schedules. In their houses. Sweeping porches. Walking down streets. Bartering in the marketplace. Running about playing games.   
  
He walked through, only looking ahead.   
  
They dodged him, ran away, looking up in awe.   
  
He was home.   
  
There, just as he remembered, was the castle. It was the same as always, but looking at the structure, he felt much different.   
  
A crystal rolled by. Where he recognized it, he couldn’t tell.   
  
He was already forgetting.   
  
He stooped down to pick the crystal up; it popped as if it were a bubble. Another crystal rolled by, then another. It looked as if someone had dropped a basket of them on top of a hill, and they were all rolling under his feet.   
  
He even checked over his shoulder to be sure that it wasn’t the case.   
  
The crystals kept rolling. With a dramatic flair, he pushed open the doors. He stepped forward, slowly and elegantly as always. A cape was beginning to trail behind him. His clothes changed, and he paid them no mind. He only folded his gloved hands in front of him and walked ahead.   
  
The goblins standing around in the castle waited in anticipation, waited to see his next move. He walked up to the throne and stood there, not hesitating but contemplating, for a necklace waiting for him on top of the throne.   
  
He reached out and picked it up gingerly by the string. It was harmless, really, and he liked the design.   
  
The jewel at the center resembled the crystals he had seen.   
  
He put it on. Nothing happened externally, nothing the other goblins could see.   
  
Then, turning on his heel, he sat down on the throne. He smiled. Then he laughed. The goblins, too, laughed along, for he was their king.   
  
There was no singer. There was no child hiding under his covers trying to seek escape. There were only dreams, the most fantastic dreams.   
  
And at the head of them all was Jareth, king of the goblins, because he had no one else to be.


End file.
